7

Sam Hawthorne, in the jargon of the times, was a Renaissance man. He had a multiplicity of interests, indoors and out, intellectual and athletic.

He was at heart a scholar who, despite heavy involvement in business, managed to keep alive a lifelong, well-informed love of literature, art and music. In foreign cities, no matter how great the pressures of work Sam would somehow find time to visit bookstores, galleries and concerts. In painting he favored the Impressionists, inclining to Monet and Pissarro. In sculpture his great love was Rodin. Lilian Hawthorne once told a friend that in Paris, in the garden of the Rodin Museum, she had seen her husband stand silent for fifteen minutes contemplating “The Burghers of Calais,” much of the time with tears in his eyes.

In music, Sam’s passion was Mozart. A proficient pianist himself, though not a brilliant one, he liked to have a piano in his hotel suite while on trips and play something from Mozart, perhaps the Sonata No. 11 in A—the grave and clear Andante, the quickening Menuetto, and finally the joyous Turkish Rondo, sending his spirits soaring after a tiring day.

The fact that he had a piano in what was usually a luxury suite was because he paid for such things himself. He could afford to. Sam was independently wealthy and owned a substantial amount of Felding-Roth stock, having inherited it from his mother who died when he was young.

His mother had been a Roth, and Sam was the last member of either the Felding or Roth clan to be involved in company management. Not that his family connections had made much, if any, difference to his career; they hadn’t, particularly as he neared the top. What Sam had achieved was through ability and integrity, and the fact was widely recognized.

At home, Sam and Lilian Hawthorne’s marriage was solid and both adored Juliet, now fifteen and apparently unspoiled despite the adoration.

In athletics Sam had been a long-distance runner in college and still enjoyed an early morning run several times a week. He was an enthusiastic and fairly successful tennis player, though the enthusiasm was stronger than his style. Sam’s greatest asset on the court was a vicious volley at the net, making him a popular doubles partner.

But dominating all outside interests, sporting or cerebral, was the fact that Sam Hawthorne was an Anglophile.

For as long as he could remember he had loved visiting England, and felt an admiration and affinity for most things English—traditions, language, education, humor, style, the monarchy, London, the countryside, classic cars. In line with the last preference, he owned and drove to work each day a superb silver-gray Rolls-Bentley.

Something else that held Sam’s high opinion was British—not just English—science, and it was this conviction that prompted an original, daring proposal during the opening months of his Felding-Roth presidency.

In a confidential, written submission to the board of directors he set out some stark, unpleasant facts.

“In drug research and production—our raison d’être—our company is in a barren, dispiriting period which has extended far beyond the ‘flat spell’ experienced by this industry generally. Our last major breakthrough was with Lotromycin, nearly fifteen years ago. Since then, while competitors have introduced major, successful new drugs, we have had only minor ones. Nor do we have anything startling in sight.

“All this has had a depressing effect on our company’s reputation and morale. Equally depressing has been the effect on finances. It is the reason we reduced our dividend last year, an action which caused the value of our stock to plummet, and it is still out of favor with investors.

“We have begun internal belt tightening, but this is not enough. In two to three years, if we fail to produce a strong, positive program for the future we will face a financial crisis of the gravest kind.”

What Sam did not say was that his predecessor as president and CEO, who had been dismissed after a confrontation with the board, had followed a top-level policy of “drift” which, in large part, had reduced Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals to its present sorry state.

Instead, and having set the stage, Sam moved on to his proposal.

“I strongly and urgently recommend,” he wrote, “that we create a Felding-Roth Research Institute in Britain. The institute would be headed by a topflight British scientist. It would be independent of our research activities in the United States.”

After more details he added, “I profoundly believe the new suggested research arm would strengthen our most critical resource area and hasten discovery of the important new drugs our company so desperately needs.”

Why Britain?

Anticipating the question, Sam proceeded to answer it.

“Traditionally, through centuries, Britain has been a world leader in basic scientific research. Within this century alone, consider some of the great discoveries which were British in origin and which changed our way of life dramatically—penicillin, television, modern radar, the airplane jet engine, to name just four.

“Of course,” Sam pointed out, “it was American companies which developed those inventions and reaped commercial benefits—this because of the unique ability of Americans to develop and market, an ability the British so often lack. But the original discoveries, in those and other instances, were British.

“If you asked me for a reason,” he continued, “I would say there are fundamental, inherent differences between British and American higher education. Each system has its strengths. But in Britain the differences produce an academic and scientific curiosity unmatched elsewhere. It is that same curiosity we can, and should, harness to our advantage.”

Sam dealt at length with costs, then concluded, “It can be argued that embarking on a major costly project at this critical time in our company’s existence is reckless and ill-advised. And, yes, a new research institute will be a heavy financial burden. But I believe it would be even more reckless, even more ill-advised, to continue to drift and not take strong, positive, daring action for the future—action which is needed now!”

Opposition to Sam Hawthorne’s plan surfaced with astounding speed and strength.

The proposal was, as someone put it, “scarcely out of the Xerox machine” and beginning to circulate among company directors and a few senior officers when Sam’s telephone began ringing, the callers forceful with objections. “Sure the Brits have had their scientific glories,” one director argued, “but nowadays American achievements far exceed them, so your whole contention, Sam, is laughable.” Others focused on—as one board member expressed it heatedly—“the absurd and backward-looking notion of locating a research center in an effete, run-down, has-been country.”

“You’d have thought,” Sam confided to Lilian a few evenings later over dinner, “that I’d suggested canceling the Declaration of Independence and taking us back to colonial status.”

Something Sam was learning quickly was that holding the company’s top job neither gave him carte blanche to do as he wished nor freed him from the shifting sands of corporate politics.

A practicing expert in company politics was the director of research, Vincent Lord, also an immediate objector to Sam’s proposal. While agreeing that more money should be spent on research, Dr. Lord described the idea of doing so in Britain as “naïve” and Sam Hawthorne’s view of British science as “kindergarten thinking, founded on a propaganda myth.”

The unusually strong, even insulting words were in a memo addressed to Sam, with a copy to a friend and ally of Vince Lord’s on the board of directors. On first reading the memo, Sam burned with anger and, leaving his office, sought out Vincent Lord on the research director’s own ground.

Walking on impeccable polished floors through the research division’s glass-lined, air-filtered corridors, Sam was reminded of the many millions of dollars, virtually limitless sums, expended by Felding-Roth on research equipment—modern, computerized, gleaming, occasionally mysterious—housed in pleasant, spacious laboratories and served by an army of white-coated scientists and technicians. What was here represented an academic scientist’s dream, but was a norm for any major pharmaceutical company. The money poured into drug research was seldom, if ever, stinted. It was only the specifics of expenditure which occasionally, as now, became a subject for argument.

Vincent Lord was in his paneled, book-lined, brightly lighted office. The door was open and Sam Hawthorne walked in, nodding casually to a secretary outside who had been about to stop him—then, seeing who it was, changed her mind. Dr. Lord, in a white coat over shirtsleeves, was at his desk, frowning as he so often did, at this moment over a paper he was reading. He looked up in surprise, his dark eyes peering through rimless glasses, his ascetic face showing annoyance at the unannounced intrusion.

Sam had been carrying Lord’s memo. Putting it on the desk, he announced, “I came to talk about this.”

The research director made a halfhearted gesture of rising, but Sam waved him down. “Informal, Vince,” Sam said. “Informal, and some face-to-face, blunt talking.”

Lord glanced at the memo on his desk, leaning forward shortsightedly to confirm its subject matter. “What don’t you like about it?”

“The content and the tone.”

“What else is there?”

Sam reached for the paper and turned it around. “It’s quite well typed.”

“I suppose,” Lord said with a sardonic smile, “now that you’re head honcho, Sam, you’d like to be surrounded by ‘yes men.’”

Sam Hawthorne sighed. He had known Vince Lord for fifteen years, had grown accustomed to the research director’s difficult ways, and was prepared to make allowances for them. He answered mildly, “You know that isn’t true. What I want is a reasoned discussion and better causes for disagreeing with me than you’ve given already.”

“Speaking of reasoning,” Lord said, opening a drawer of his desk and removing a file, “I strongly object to a statement of yours.”

“Which one?”

“About our own research.” Consulting the file, Lord quoted from Sam’s proposal about the British institute. “‘While our competitors have introduced major, successful new drugs, we have had only minor ones. Nor do we have anything startling in sight.’”

“So prove me wrong.”

“We have a number of promising developments in sight,” Lord insisted. “Several of the new, young scientists I’ve brought in are working—”

“Vince,” Sam said, “I know about those things. I read your reports, remember? Also, I applaud the talent you’ve recruited.”

It was true, Sam thought. One of Vincent Lord’s strengths across the years had been his ability to attract some of the cream of scientific newcomers. A reason was that Lord’s own reputation was still high, despite his failure to achieve the major discovery that had been expected of him for so long. Nor was there any real dissatisfaction with Lord’s role as research director; the dry spell was one of those misfortunes that happened to drug companies, even with the best people heading their scientific sides.

“The progress reports I send to you,” Lord said, “are always weighted with caution. That’s because I have to be wary about letting you and the merchandising gang become excited about something which is still experimental.”

“I know that,” Sam said, “and I accept it.” He was aware that in any drug company a perpetual tug-of-war existed between sales and manufacturing on the one hand and research on the other. As the sales people expressed it, “Research always wants to be a hundred and ten percent sure of every goddam detail before they’ll say, ‘Okay, let’s go!’” Manufacturing, similarly, was eager to gear up for production and not be caught out by sudden demands when a new drug was required in quantity. But, on the other side of the equation, researchers accused the merchandising arm of “wanting to rush madly onto the market with a product that’s only twenty percent proven, just to beat competitors and have an early lead in sales.”

“What I’ll tell you now, and what isn’t in my reports,” Vincent Lord informed Sam, “is that we’re getting excitingly good results with two compounds—one, a diuretic, the other an anti-inflammatory for rheumatoid arthritis.”

“That’s excellent news.”

“There’s also our application for Derogil pending before the FDA.”

“The new anti-hypertensive.” Sam knew that Derogil, to control high blood pressure, was not a revolutionary drug but might become a good profit maker. He asked, “Is our application getting anywhere?”

Lord said sourly, “Not so you’d notice. Those puffed-up nincompoops in Washington …” He paused. “I’m going there again next week.”

“I still don’t think my statement was wrong,” Sam said. “But since you feel strongly, I’ll modify it when the board meets.”

Vincent Lord nodded as if the concession were no more than his due, then went on, “There’s also my own research on the quenching of free radicals. I know, after all this time, you believe nothing will come of it—”

“I’ve never said that,” Sam protested. “Never once! At times you choose to disbelieve it, Vince, but there are some of us here who have faith in you. We also know that important discoveries don’t come easily or quickly.”

Sam had only a sketchy idea of what the quenching of free radicals involved. He knew the objective was to eliminate toxic effects of drugs generally, and was something Vincent Lord had persevered with for a decade. If successful, there would be strong commercial possibilities. But that was all.

“Nothing you’ve told me,” Sam said, getting up, “changes my opinion that creating a British research center is a good idea.”

“And I’m still opposed because it’s unnecessary.” The research director’s reply was adamant, though as an afterthought he added, “Even if your plan should go ahead, we must have control from here.”

Sam Hawthorne smiled. “We’ll discuss that later, if and when.” But in his mind, Sam knew that letting Vincent Lord have control of the new British research institute was the last thing he would permit to happen.

When Lord was alone, he crossed to the outer door and closed it. Then, returning, he slumped in his chair disconsolately. He sensed that the proposal for a Felding-Roth research institute in Britain would go ahead despite his opposition, and he saw the new development as a threat to himself, a sign that his scientific dominance in the company was slipping. How much farther would it slip, he wondered, before he was eclipsed entirely?

So much would have been different, he reflected gloomily, if his own personal research had progressed better and faster than it had. As it was, he wondered, what did he have to show for his life in science?

He was now forty-eight, no longer the young and brilliant wizard with a newly minted Ph.D. Even some of his own techniques and knowledge, he was aware, were out of date. Oh, yes, he still read extensively and kept himself informed. Yet that kind of knowledge was never quite the same as original involvement in the scientific field in which your expertise developed—organic chemistry in his own case; developed to become an art, so that always and forever after you had instinct and experience to guide you. In the new field of genetic engineering, for example, he was not truly comfortable, not as at home in it as were the new young scientists now pouring from the universities, some of whom he had recruited for Felding-Roth.

And yet, he reasoned—reassured himself—despite the changes and fresh knowledge, the possibility of a titanic breakthrough with the work he had been doing still was possible, still could come at any time. Within the parameters of organic chemistry an answer existed—an answer to his questions posed through countless experiments over ten long years of grinding research.

The quenching of free radicals.

Along with the answer Vincent Lord sought would come enormous therapeutic benefits, plus unlimited commercial possibilities which Sam Hawthorne and others in the company, in their scientific ignorance, had so far failed to grasp.

What would the quenching of free radicals achieve?

The answer: something essentially simple but magnificent.

Like all scientists in his field, Vincent Lord knew that many drugs, when in action in the human body and as part of their metabolism, generated “free radicals.” These were elements harmful to healthy tissue, and the cause of adverse side effects and sometimes death.

Elimination, or “quenching,” of free radicals would mean that beneficial drugs, other drugs, which previously could not be used on humans because of dangerous side effects, could be taken by anyone with impunity. And restricted drugs, hitherto used only at great risk, could be absorbed as casually as aspirin.

No longer need physicians, when prescribing for their patients, worry about toxicity of drugs. No longer need cancer patients suffer agonies from the near-deadly drugs which sometimes kept them alive, but equally often tortured, then killed them from some other cause than cancer. The beneficial effects of those and all other drugs would remain, but the killing effects would be nullified by the quenching of free radicals.

What Vincent Lord hoped to produce was a drug to add to other drugs, to make them totally safe.

And it was all possible. The answer existed. It was there. Hidden, elusive, but waiting to be found.

And Vincent Lord, after ten years’ searching, believed he was close to that elusive answer. He could smell it, sense it, almost taste the nectar of success.

But how much longer? Oh, how much longer would he have to wait?

Abruptly he sat upright in his chair and, with an effort of will, expunged his downcast mood. Opening a drawer of his desk, he selected a key. He would go now—once more—he decided, to the private laboratory, a few steps down the hall, where his research work was done.